Rosebud Redux

An excerpt from IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER written by moi with a few recent musings at the end to wrap it all up in a pretty bow.

At last, I have vindicated myself. A wrong in my life has finally been made right.

A glaring red mark is now erased from my permanent record. I once was lost, but now I’m found.

What, you may well ask, is this bold, courageous step I have taken which will guarantee me a reserved seat in that big skybox above known as Heaven?

I have just seen CITIZEN KANE as it was originally meant to be seen-on an actual motion picture screen.

Okay, fine, I’m a little late. It’s not like I haven’t seen the dang thing before…only several dozen times since I was a lad of wee, but it was always on television. After all, CITIZEN KANE was a perennial LATE, LATE SHOW attraction in the prehistoric days before cable. I probably saw it for the first time on the San Francisco TV station KPIX at maybe two in the morning back in the 1960s. Even then, it was hard to deny the power of this incredible film, a tougher feat to accomplish in those days since it was broken up by incessant used car commercials featuring fast-talking hucksters like the notorious Ralph Williams, a dead ringer for Lex Luthor. CITIZEN KANE pulled me in every single time and I was always a willing hostage.

Only a series of missed opportunities throughout my movie-going life has prevented me from actually making the supreme effort to view what is generally acknowledged as the greatest film of all time in its natural habitat. Truthfully, it has been a major source of embarrassment to have to admit this shame of mine because I have always claimed to be somewhat of an expert on the cinema, a connoisseur, if you
will…someone who eats, sleeps, hell…even farts movies. Not to have seen CITIZEN KANE…really, honestly, truly seen Orson Welles’ masterpiece meant one thing and one thing only.

I was a fraud. Oh yeah. A genuine, bona fide, dyed-in-the-wool-whatever-the-hell-that-means, class A number one F-R-A-U-D.

But, not no mo’, pal.

Now, I can hold my head up high, climb to the top of Gene Shalit’s hair and shout victoriously, “Free at last! Free at Last! Pass the popcorn, I am free at last!”

This soul-cleansing redemption came one recent fall evening at the Guild Theatre in downtown Portland, Oregon, a venue that runs shows for the Northwest Film Center. The Guild has an auditorium that is old, musty and damp with seats to match, almost giving off the impression that’s it had been underwater for several years after a flood. That, to me, is part of its charm. The screen, framed by soft white light bulbs, was rather small, making me think this might be a 16mm showing, even though it wasn’t. The presentation began; stumbling and bumbling like a doddering old fool in the dark. The
opening titles, usually the first big rush I get because your anticipation is so high, were illegibly out of frame. The sound level was so loud, the NEWS ON THE MARCH fanfare alone nearly burst open my lower intestine. The print was fairly scratchy in that community college Film Appreciation class way. Instead of irritating the snot out of me, these gaffes actually amused me because they eventually worked themselves out. The Guild basically showed me a good time that night. I might even give it a second date sometime.

It is also my pleasure to report that I sat with a respectful audience that didn’t talk during the film, laughed at all the right places and even gave me a small sense of pride to be amongst them when they applauded after the closing credits. (There were a couple of knotheads that just HAD to leave just as the sled was burning. What’s the hurry? Afraid you’re gonna miss a rerun of JAG?)

To say that I’m familiar with CITIZEN KANE would be an understatement. Basically, I know this film backwards and forwards with entire scenes that I can recite verbatim. However, each repeat viewing affords certain aspects of KANE to stand out more than ever, as it would for any film. Projected on the big screen, these details are more abundant and have more clarity. I may not have seen KANE with “a whole new set of eyes” like a friend of mine suggested, but my vision most certainly improved. The opening sequence, just before Kane utters “Rosebud” for the very first time, has that eerie tour of Xanadu after dark. With its special effects and matte paintings, it looks damn near like animation, not dissimilar to early black-and-white Disney. Speaking of cartoons, check out the birds in the background of the Everglades sequence near the end. Just where the hell did Kane and Susan have that picnic anyway…Skull Island? Hey, look over there by the chilled prawns…it’s Bruce Cabot! Joseph Cotten is very obvious in the shadows of the screening room after NEWS ON THE MARCH. That smile he has on his face looks like he was trying to sneak into the scene. Another thing I’ve never really picked up on before: Dorothy Comingore, the actress who portrays the second Mrs. Kane, was hot! Take a look at the early boarding house scene when Susan Alexander is introduced. Small wonder how Kane got his hand caught in that “cookie” jar. Granted, she’s got a voice that would make Fran Drescher squirm, but how can I not pay tribute to the actress who says the immortal line, “Yer awful funny, are-runt cha?”

On the downside is a glaring oversight by Welles and screenwriter Herman Mankiewicz that weakens the film for me and obviously is something I haven’t picked upon before. There is a total lack of any kind of a payoff regarding the death of Emily, the first Mrs. Kane, and their son (played by the ever-popular Sonny Bupp) Surely, it was significant enough to warrant such attention. Their demise seems to be mentioned only in passing, as if it were merely a convenience of the story. Its absence leaves a very obvious gaping hole that I find impossible to ignore from here on out.

Volumes have been written about Gregg Toland’s cinematography and Bernard Herrmann’s music, so let me just add my undying admiration for both of their invaluable contributions, which are even more spectacular in a theater setting. When Rosebud’s secret is finally revealed and the music reaches its crescendo, so did I, in more ways than one. (You figure it out)

Orson Welles as Charles Foster Kane is the single greatest film performance of all time. Period.

After the movie, I drove home about as pleased with myself as I had been in quite some time. Now that

time has distanced me from that night, I have to ask myself why. What was it that I actually accomplished? I went to a movie. More accurately, I went to a movie that I’d seen maybe thirty times before I also own a copy of this movie I paid to see. The answer may be two-fold for it not only has to do with act of going to a movie, but also what it represents which, coincidentally enough, is a lot like the answer to the meaning of Rosebud. Watching CITIZEN KANE at the Guild gave me something I had been lacking-sense of being true to myself.

I love the movies. I own both a VCR and a DVD player. That means I will continue to watch movies at home each and every chance I get. The technology is getting better and better as each day passes, making the home experience a more viable option. There is never a lack of product since it is easier and extremely affordable to obtain movies to purchase or merely to rent. My own personal collection continues to grow into the treasure chest I’ve always dreamed of. But, it’s never going to be enough.
There is a qualitative difference in a theater, an entire dimension that is lost at home. This dimension is a separate world, a world of light and life that can envelop me entirely. It can make the fantastic positively believable and the tiniest gesture a poem. The portal to that world is a movie theater and I wish to remain a frequent traveler through its gateway. Sure, sometimes this magic portal takes me to a place where a teenager humps an apple pie. But, hey, allow me the pretentious metaphor.

The night I saw KANE was a wake-up call. It re-ignited the fire I myself allowed to go out, that is, my passion for the movie-going experience. It caused me to review the many options that exist out there for those with my voracious appetite for all things celluloid. I happen to be very fortunate to be living in an area where I’m only limited by my lack of imagination. The confines of the multiplex with its standard Hollywood fare mentality may be pre-dominant here as it everywhere but at least there are many other choices. Independent, foreign, revivals of classics, hell, even second run features at discounted prices are all currently playing at various neighborhood theaters all over town, many in glorious old movie palaces that have been saved and preserved by people who care. These are getting fewer and far between as each day passes, which is another reason to support them. There are even theater pubs where you can enjoy a meal and a brew while watching a movie. Okay, that’s here where I live. Maybe that doesn’t exist where you are. Go out and find them. If I didn’t live in this area, that’s what I would do. I’ve done it before and I’d do it again. And yes, I’ve even gone back to the multiplex too because it ain’t the only game in town. It’s just another option.

You see, as I said, I love the movies and I am proud to say the movies love me right back. What I’ve come to realize it that this a part of who I am and always will be, even it is just a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. This is my Rosebud.

In the dark, I see the light.

Copyright 2003 by Scott Cherney

CODA:
This incident occurred at the turn of century, a term that is still hard to swallow twenty three years into the 21st where we find ourselves now. That being said, some updates seem to be required. The Guild Theatre in downtown Portland is long gone. I no longer have a VCR, though am inexplicably holding onto some videotapes. There is no mention of streaming services because they didn't exist back then. You could rent a DVD from Netflix though if you so desired. 

I still believe in the power of cinema, especially in the realm of a movie theater. My attendance in recent years may belie this fanciful notion, but the experience in and of itself still gives me that visceral thrill like no other. In fact, I'm going to a movie tomorrow to keep my passion for film alive and hopefully still kicking.

IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER is available in paperback and Kindle on the Amazon

Twenty Years of Thumbs

I first heard the phrase "please hold thumbs" from the South African would be my son-in-law.

Since I had never heard this before, he told  me it was "something we do for luck". In other words, it's the equivalent of crossing one's fingers. Does it work? Well, as the expression goes, time will tell. In this case, that time is ten years long.

Two entire decades has passed since my wife Laurie and I took the definitive adventure of our concurrent lifetimes when we traveled to the other side of the world just to attend a wedding. Of course, it wasn't just any wedding, but that of my brilliant and beautiful daughter Lindsay to that South African triatheletic motormouth love of her life, Chris.

That 11 day long saga going from here (Portland, OR) to there (South Africa) became the basis of my book,  PLEASE HOLD THUMBS, a tome I am proud to call my very own. This is the tale of the ultimate Cherney Journey, one that included an honest-to-garsh safari (with amorous lions and pissed off elephants), air travel troubles I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies (well...maybe) and The Main Event, the most extraordinary nuptials ever. For a place I wasn't sure I ever wanted to be in the first place, South Africa got under my skin and into my soul.

What started out to be a mere vanity project (What I Did on My Summer Vacation zzzzz....) evolved into something else entirely over time. I came to realize that PLEASE HOLD THUMBS at its core was a love story. Naturally that included Lindsay and Chris' whirlwind romance, but also the love I have for my wife, family and even finding a way to love myself, probably the toughest pill of all to swallow. I finally came to terms with my place in the world and discovered that it's all a matter of perspective. I also realized that the journey ain't over 'til it's really over.

So what about that "luck" thing? 

At the end of July, Lindsay and Chris will celebrate their 20th wedding anniversary, a milestone that must be shouted to the heavens. Their union has produced their best collaboration possible, the loves of my life, our granddaughters, Aefa, my theater girl with the golden eyes and the fierce warrior peanut herself, Athena. The love story continues.

Consider this a biased testimony, but as far I'm concerned, holding one's thumbs works.

I should do it more often.

Me in Kruger Park back at the turn of the century

I have several excerpts from said book on this here blog, all gathered together on the page I cleverly called CHERNEY JOURNEYS

Individually, they are:

OH, THAT'S NICE!
The first chapter in full

HURRY UP AND WAIT

The painful three day trip from Portland to Johannesburg

A DEMON MARCHES TO PRETORIA

A little something called a Tokoloshe visited me in my dreams

DOWN MEXICO WAY

A side-trip to Tijuana when I was a young 'un

BAD KITTY
The amazing safari in Kruger Park

For anyone who has an interest in reading the whole story go to:

PLEASE HOLD THUMBS ON AMAZON KINDLE

But, most importantly, because without the two of them, this grand adventure would never have transpired...

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, LINDSAY AND CHRIS!

Mile High Holiday-A Denver Cherney Journey

I just flew in from Denver and boy, are my arms tired. Well, from carrying luggage. What did you think I meant? What? That's stupid.

It's been far too long between Cherney Journeys and at long last, off I twent into the wild gray yonder, it being December in Oregon and murky is the name of that tune. But up, up and away I flew from the Northwest of the Pacific and returned to Denver, Colorado, home of Broncos, Rockies and Omelettes, in order to visit members of my fam. I flew solo this time around, my wife unable to make the trip, which put me in a self-inflicted precarious state of mind due to too much anxiety and lotsa Jewish guilt by proxy. You see, mi familia that I refer to is the one I so happily married into almost a quarter of a century ago, therefore, my wife's side and her blood. Those remaining in mine are few and far between, making it rather sparse on that side of the church none of us would have attended. This Denver contingent consists of the cast of my book PLEASE HOLD THUMBS which involved the wedding of my stepdaughter Lindsay to my eventual son-in-law Chris in South Africa, a union that has given us two off-spring, granddaughters extraordinaire, Aefa and Athena.

Aefa, the eldest of the two, has grown into an amazingly gorgeous young woman in the decade she has graced us here on earth. The greeting she gave me and the love she showed me totally decimated the barnacles of my cynical heart. Her little sister, three year old Athena, was the question mark. A spitting image of her mother at that age, she is a force of Mother Nature incarnate in a half-pint size body. Advance word was that she would be standoffish and totally shy around this curmudgeon in training, but they underestimated the Power of the Grandpa. I worked my way into that hard candy shell within the first twenty minutes of my arrival until me totally under her own super powers, wrapping me around her itty bitty fingers.

The main event of said sojourn was to witness the budding actress Aefa in a performance of BEAUTY AND THE BEAST JR., a concept of which I was initally baffled. What could be missing in the junior version of a Disney property? Some randy doings between B and B? Is Chip the illegitimate cup of Mrs. Potts? Does "Be Our Guest" have a double meaning? I guess I should have been grateful it was ANGELS IN AMERICA JR. When I discovered this was merely scaled down and truncated from the original, boy was my face red. (Not really, but I'll cop to the ignorance) But I would have gone to see Aefa in anything (and have and will again). To be front and center for this particular production honored me to no end. She hads evolved into a real theater kid, even to the point of rattling off her numerous credits like the seasoned ten year old veteran that she now is.

So I headed back into familiar territory, that of Children's Theater, able to sit right up front next to Chris' lovely mother Elke, visiting from South Africa, two grandparents, side by side, weeping openly under our masks at the sight of our Aefa on opening night. She charmed us by her mere presence alone, but when she displayed the passionate enthusiasm she threw into her performance, I was knocked for a positive loop. I lived vicariously threw her joy of performing before a live audience and the fact that she is so emotionally involved at this early stage of her young life speaks volumes and fortunately, I'm not the only one to hear her. With support, she will continue on and who knows where she's headed, though if it were up to me, all the way. 

As for Denver itself, I didn't see much this time around but it wasn't that kind of a trip, so gratefully immersed in the bosom of my family that I was. What I did experience was a lovely taste of holiday cheer as the brood decorated their Christmas tree. This ornaments are all personalized, one or more from each year that Chris and Lindsay have been married and with a meaning attached to every one of them. Some were from South Africa, others designated special events like the birth of their daughters, their moves to Brooklyn and Denver and my favorite, a solid white globe with the picture of a dung beetle, representing a tough year that they managed to get through and move on. This family ritual of theirs gave him something I haven't had in many a year, more than just a modicum of holiday spirit. It was actually the star atop my own personal tree and has remained shining since my return.

This was a true Cherney Journey, one that afforded me the luxury of getting out of my own head, live entirely in the moment and reflect upon the past, present and future with open eyes and mind. I headed back to Portland to my wife and life with newfound vigor, insight and recharged batteries to face whatever lies ahead. 

Christmas spirit? Dude, I'm soaking in it. 

Nice change of pace.

Fail to the Chief

And so the big bad Boogeyman was driven from the land and disgrace. 

Everything was good in the world once again. And we lived happily ever after. 

Uh-huh. And everything changed on New Year's Day.

The final days of Donald F. Trump as 45th President of these here United States have been excruciatingly despicable and absolutely miserable 

for the country and for life itself. So you expected any less? How exactly was this different from the previous 3 years and change? But he's gone now so it's really not nice to speak ill of the dead. (Well he's dead to me) 

And yet who can we blame for this nightmare? Those who elected him? Well, I didn't vote for him, that's for damn sure. Little Hilly Clinton didn't get one outta me neither. So, wait I'm to blame? Face reality, you ideaological lemmings. I live in Oregon. You know, the Left Coast? This went to Hillary and so did her electoral votes. So shut up about that already. In my addled mind, she was a rotten candidate, so focused on breaking the glass ceiling that she forgot every single person below, propping her up would be cut to ribbons by the shards falling from above. She and the Dems underestimated Benito Trumpellini and he ran away with the win. I refuse to accept that my non-vote was in any way 

responsible for his victory. I feel exactly the same way when I voted for Ralph Nader in 2000. Did that serve to elect GW Bush as number 42? I think not. Besides, I don't have to justify my vote to anyone. What's that? Fuck me? No, fuck you. 

This time around I voted for Joltin' Joe Biden. Now I wasn't exactly Riden with Biden, I wasn't even Abiden with Biden. It was more like anybody but the Trumpasaurus. I would have voted for my coffee table but I wouldn't it wouldn't have had enough electoral votes to make a diff. I have issues with Joe. I also am not a big Kamala fan. But they were enough to get the job done and, hooray, they win the day. Will I rue the day I made this pick? Probably not. I stand by this choice too. Believe me, I hate having to vote for the lesser of two evils as I have had to do in most elections. But I'll own it as I have with all the rest. (See? I can adult too. So NYAH!)

But was the election fixed? Frankly, I think there were some improprieties. Watching the results, there sure seemed like a truck load of Biden votes got dumped in all at once, though that was just a casual  observation on my part. (I'm not above rockin' a few conspiracy theories of my own) The whole thing was a mess due to this pandemic, voting by mail, et al. Nobody was on the same page because a)no one knew what book it was in and/or b) they can't read. What a boondoggle.  And are the Democrats capable of the shenanigans they were accused of? Oh, heaven forfend. The end result was that Biden would have won regardless of this mess. It was still close real close. A nail biter as it were. As  far as the election being stolen, I'm saying no. Trump digging in his heels and refusing to concede was the delusion he propagated to the world. It served to fuel those goddamn deplorables of his to the point of internal combustion, egged on by Fox News and right wing-nut talk show hosts and well, look what happened in DC, the darkest moment in American history since 9/11. And that disgrace is what Donnie left on. Look where it got him. Another impeachment. A two-fer, as it were. again no surprise. His whole rise to power had been accelerated on the Birther lie, so why shouldn't his collapse and fall be triggered by another? 

Meet the new host of The Apprentice reboot!

Donaldo has always been his own worst enemy. He could actually have won a second term if he actually put in the time. But instead his narcissism, did him in hoist by his own petard. Check out the first debate with Biden when he went Full Tilt Buffoon. Just as everyone under-estimated him in 2016, he over-estimated himself this time around. He thought it would be a cake walk over Sleepy Joe, but he didn't do his homework and decided to coast on his persona, but the shtick after four years had grown stale and worn-out. He exposed himself, not as he did to Stormy Daniels, but to the electorate, as a cheap B-movie thug, bullying his way into the hearts and minds of only his most devoted acolytes. As such, the Trumpster went into the dumpster.

Now he's gone and Joe is in. Okay, what next? Back to 2016? Sorry, there is no do-overs in life. The damage has been done. We're still as the divided as we were two weeks ago. The healing can only begin if we begin to fill in the gaps. That is, of course, if they wish to be. Half the nation voted for Trump. What percentage of those were part of the Capitol mob or supported them is anybody's guess. Many did not, but are still disenfranchised at this moment in time. And what about the Left who did nothing bitch, moan and whine about every single thing this so-called President did each and every minute of each and every single day? Their hateful addiction will be tougher to kick than Don-Don's Twitter habit. 

Donny Do-Wrong claims he'll be back The Republicans won't have him. He's screwed that party seven ways to Sunday. A third party, perhaps? Maybe Don will invoke the spirit of Lyndon (the Douche) Larouche and give it the old college try. And if history has taught us anything:

One thing is certain. Donald Trump will go gently into that good night. Like a badly-conceived sequel to an inexplicably successful shitty movie, he will return. 

Threat or promise? You make the call.

Dystopia Now

UPWARD FACING KITTY

Ever watch a post-apocalyptic movie or read a book in the same genre and wonder, how did the world fall in to dystopian disarray so quickly?

Over three months later and look where we are. Before the Feds arrived to the beleaguered City Of Roses, they were told that things, riot-wise, would escalate and, sho' 'nuff, that's what has happened.

The little gang of ne'er-do-wells who have been causing most of the damage to said Stumptown since Day One of this protest cycle have been joined in ranks by new groups of well-meaning folks like the Walls of Vets, Moms and Dads w/leaf blowers (3 separate factions), healthcare workers, lawyers (!) and the cherry on top of this super sundae, a naked yoga enthusiast. What prompted this influx of newbies? Why, the arrival of Benito Trumpilini's jack-booted thugs onto our city streets, here to protect the federal buildings under siege by those lil' rascals running rampant without rhyme, reason or care in the world. And how are they doing this, you may ask?

BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY

Mayor Ted and Governor Kate were outraged! 

"WE DON'T NEED YOUR HELP! WE ARE PERFECTLY INCAPABLE OF HANDLING THIS ALL BY OURSELVES, THANK YOU!"

And to prove their pint, Mayor Ted walked into the thick of battle, proclaiming, "They won't gas me"

which, of course, they did. An appreciative crowd didn't offer sympathy, only a horselaugh and told Teddy Bear to not go away mad, just go away.

Kate herself would have been a lot more aggressive if someone convinced her these weren't protests, but massive book clubs. Instead, she sat on her hands, even when Ted got a snoot full of gas. "Whoops! Sucks to be him."

What an adorable corporate logo!

Finally, after intense negotiations...the Feds went away. Then the Oregon State Police. The violence subsided...temporarily, until it didn't, Back to square one. Now we're coming up on 80 straight nights of peaceful protests complete with rocks, bottles, fireworks, just plain fire and lots and lots of tear gas.

This has gotten international exposure. Everybody knows about Portland now! We're Number One with a Rubber Bullet!

The populace is still under the impression that these gosh darn kids a right to protest. Yeah, they do. It's called Freedom of Speech. The thing is, kids, they've hijacked the movement. The message is getting lost thanks to all these miscreants. Oh, wait. They're Freedom Fighters, aren't they? The Great Antifa has been lionized to heroic status. Look at the marvelous memes they've generated. The Rebel Alliance is Antifa. The Avengers are Antifa. Harry Potter is Antifa. The Muppet Babies are Antifa. Lord love a duck. It's enough to make an old geek cry.

Gag me with a Tardis.

I didn't know that another symptom of Covid-19 was denial. Or is it delusion? Perhaps a combination of both.

Your blind hatred toward Donald Trump is turning these creeps into something they are not. They have been around for as long as I can remember. Whenever there was a protest of any sort in downtown Portland, anarchists, as they were was known, always screwed things up with randoms act of violence and vandalism. In recent years, they've stood up to right-wing extremists who invaded our town (see blog post : BATTLEFIELD PORTLANDIA) and all of a sudden, they were the good guys. Now where are we? Black Lives Matter, fighting for change in this country as Antifa fights for their right to party. They are only in it for themselves. If Mayor Ted made one valid point (and I think it's been one), it's that this giving Trump fuel to fan the flames of his campaign and remember, he plays dirtier than anyone. Then again, Ted is compliant too with his non-action. He didn't think of that. The tear gas must have stunted his cognitive abilities.

Ya gotta wake up, Portland, for the sake of your beloved city. With the Pandemic still holding us hostage, homelessness reaching epic proportions, the economy going down the shitter...you're allowing the inmates to run the asylum. I know, I know. Maybe we're only talking about a few bad apples here...oh. Ouch.

Get your heads out of your asses, people. You might want to believe we're all part of a cosplay interpretation of LES MISERABLES, but you're wrong. It's just plain miserable. This isn't an anti-protest rant by any means. There are issues for which you should take to the streets and have your voices heard loud and clear. Don't go out there just because it's Summer. 

UPDATE: Since I first wrote this, the Proud Boys came back to town for a scuffle with the young scalawags of Rose City which made Mayor Weenie stand up and take notice, but not about the riot du jour until...today (8/26). He made a fist toward these delinquents of justice and said, basically, "Hey, maybe if we ignore these gosh darn kids, maybe they'll go away." Way to make a fist, Ted. How's that re-election campaign going?

Worst of all, Jacob Blake was shot in the back seven times by police in Kenosha, Wisconsin and a 17 year old turd named Kyle Rittenhouse decided to go rogue, killing two protesters with an AR-15.

Coming up on Day 100 in PDX with no end in sight.

Dystopia. We're soaking in it.

Statues of Limitations

UPDATE 10/17/20: Last weekend,  a group of thugs stormed through the South park blocks of Portland in the name of Indigenous Peoples' Day of Rage. At least, that was their excuse this time. They smashed windows and glass doors at the Oregon Historical Society and stole the Afro-American Heritage Bicentennial Quilt, found later blocks away, soaking in the rain. Then they toppled the statues of Teddy Roosevelt and known scumbag of the people, Abraham Lincoln. Damn him and his pennies anyway. Here's a piece I wrote earlier this summer:

Enough is enough. Or is it?

After these nightly rampant displays of vandalism and pillaging in the name of...what was it again? The message is getting lost, people in all these acts of idiocy on the streets of Portland for the past...are you ready for this?..40 freaking nights now with, I'm sure, more to come. (Up to 120 as of 10/17/20) The peaceful BlackLivesMatter protests have been booted off the front page by a pack of punks, thugs and hooligans (that's right) who have hijacked the headlines with their actions. This is frustrating to the cause since this fringe element is stealing the spotlight, but what are they going to do about it, call the police? Whoopsy-daisy...

Then there's the destruction of statues happening nationwide. It began with tearing down leaders of the Confederacy that somehow have still remained intact in the 21st century. Since Portland doesn't have any tributes to the "brave" rebels of yore, they decided to go after Tommy Jefferson's statue at the high school that bares his name (you think it was named after Weezy?) The result? Slave-owner TJ got yanked off his perch. Then they went after another slave-owner, George Washington who bit the dust where he stood on Sandy Boulevard. I reckon some folks won't be crossing the border to visit our neighbor to the north until the name is changed. Any votes for the great state of Cobain?

Last week, the iconic bronze elk statue, part of the David P. Thompson fountain that was erected in 1900, was set ablaze by another or the same gang of nitwits. The fire was such that it damaged the base and the elk had to be removed by the city. Who did this? It sure wasn't PETA. As far as why it happened, there is no logical answer, is there? Maybe they're running out of statues. What's left?

Well, there's this umbrella guy in Pioneer Square. He seems pretty benign, but hold the phone...

HE'S GOT A RED TIE!
OFF WITH HIS HEAD!

Paul Bunyan? Doesn't he represent the lumber industry?

SOMEBODY CALL EARTH FIRST...STAT!

Beverly Cleary's beloved character has statue all her own. Everybody loves Ramona Quimby, don't they? Well, what if I told you her middle name was...

KAREN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

When these are all long gone, disappeared by the anti-bronze league, one thing is a given.

Street performance artist Mr. Statue

THIS GUY HAD BETTER WATCH HIS BACK! HE'S NEXT!

Whether it is intentional or not, these obscene fools are sabotaging the movement with their idiotic destructive actions. Think of what happened to that elk statue. 

It was removed because its base was ruined.

COMING SOON: ELECTION DAY! 

DUCK AND COVER!

Arrivederci, Maestro!

The brilliant film composer Ennio Morricone has left us with an extraordinary array of music and memories that will live on forever. His work has always filled my heart, soul and imagination with wonder since I first heard him in my formative years and continues to do so to this very day in the process of writing my most recent novel.

Here is an excerpt from my first book IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER, recalling how the Maestro's music has followed me my entire life, even when I moved here to Portland, Oregon.

The first movie soundtrack album I ever bought was THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY. I’d play it incessantly and discovered the inspirational qualities of music while I wrote my stories as a kid. Many a time, that familiar strangulated cry from the main theme blasted out of the stereo speakers in my bedroom. I often wondered if anyone in my neighborhood thought someone was being murdered in our house. Later, I compiled several tracks from this and other soundtracks to create a mix tape that I used for atmospheric purposes at a western theme park called Pollardville Ghost Town. I was the entertainment director for a couple of years there as well as a cowboy stunt player in the various skits we performed on the town’s main street. (I even wore the poncho I bought ten years before in Tijuana after I’d seen GBU)

Recently, I was in downtown Portland, Oregon waiting for a light rail train nearby what is now known as Providence Park, the stadium home of the Portland Timbers and Thorns soccer teams.. It was near five o’clock on a Friday and I was fatigued by a particularly grueling week. Like everyone else, I just wanted to go home. Music, very familiar music at that, caught my ear. This was a melody so esoteric and personal to me that I began to feel as though I were imagining it, scoring my daily life like music sometimes does. 

But no, it was indeed Ennio Morricone’s music from GBU. The exact track on the soundtrack is entitled “The Strong” and its melancholy tones echoed throughout the streets of Portland. It was coming from the stadium across the street from where I was standing. I walked to the curb and just stared at the ballpark when another cut called “The Ecstasy of Gold” began. In the film, it plays when Tuco (Eli Wallach) discovers Sad Hill Cemetery and searches for the grave holding the buried treasure he seeks.

It was then that I discovered my own treasure. I smiled from ear to ear as I heard the magnificence of Morricone enrich my soul and an actual tear came to my eye in recognition. It was right then that I found that I wasn’t alone in the world. Some one had the chutzpah to play Ennio goddamn Morricone for a sound check at a baseball stadium and that person was just as big of a freak as me. When you’re an eccentric weirdo, you never know when you’re going to run across a kindred spirit.

One final word, Maestro Morricone.

Bravo!

Battlefield: Portlandia

Just not very well.

Turn left-Look out, it's Antifa!
Go right- Head for the hills! It's the Proud Boys!

Where the hell can you go in Portland, Oregon these days? GPS doesn't work as you try to navigate your way around from these two angry mobs. So what to do? Stay home and sequester yourselves in your above ground bomb shelters? Stick your head in the sand until they go away? How about finally putting your foot down and saying enough is finally enough? It's okay. You don't have to use your inside voice.

This best of all possible worlds (once upon a time, say back in the mid 00s) is under siege by these packs of blithering idiots who are tearing the city apart from within and without. They're drying up necessary resources that keep the self-proclaimed City that Works (well...) barely afloat amid its multitude of everyday problems without these dopes using the streets as their personal battleground.  Last weekend, downtown had to virtually shut down to allow the August melee the freedom to take over what is the middle of a normally abundant summer season, causing a loss of approximately $3 million dollars of lost revenue and not counting what the city spent to keep any semblance of peace. Thanks, y'all. Good job. Two thumbs up and I don't mean in the air.

The Battle of  the Boneheads continues.

On one side you got your interlopers, them thar right wing extremists with names like the Proud Boys, Patriot Prayers and, I dunno, The Eagle's Anus or something. These members of President Benito Trumpolini's best and brightest continue to congregate here for some some damn reason or another. Their message is lost in all that strutting, chest-thumping and flag waving, a bunch of nonsensical tales told by idiots, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. (Thanks, Willy S!) Yep. That's them. The few, the proud, the morons.

And in this corner, stepping out of their clown cars and into the ring with these nimrods are the Antifa. What a sweet name they have. Sounds like the most darling nanny from Martinique ever! "Antifa! Read me a story!" "Antifa! I have a boo-boo!" "Antifa! ICE is here!" Yeah, they ain't that frickin' cute. This ever-growing group of vigilantes have formed their own uniformed army, populated by a bunch of ne'er-do-well ragamuffins who would never consider the military as a career option, if that's even on the table to begin with. These gosh darn kids even try to add a bit of whimsy to the proceedings, some of them dressing as unicorns and bananas while tossing mayonnaise and vegan milkshakes at the other side. Of course, they also carry shields, metal poles and who the hell brought the bear spray? These cretins go off the rails more often than not, as extreme left as the Proud Marys are to the right and never the twain shall meet except on the streets of downtown Rose City, USA

Both groups harass, harangue and mock each other at unbearable decibels for hours on end until the whole shebang escalates into a schoolyard brawl all at the cost of taxpayer dollars that neither side will pay. The right wingnuts are from out of town, the left, well, frankly don't give a dime, my dear, so guess who's footing the bill and going to suffer when the coffers run dry?

Portland mayor Ted Weenie allows them get away with it. Even though the last kerfuffle wasn't the Tiananmen Square smackdown that was anticipated, Teddy Bear claimed victory while Portland police chief Danielle Outlaw finally got to do her job. The bullshit was kept to a minimum, considering what happened last time. The worst parts made the nightly news, of course and now are being used as fodder for social media on all platforms.

O Portlandia, swoop down and skewer these dumbasses, okay?

But was it a draw for both factions?
Nope.
Sorry, Anifa, the wrong is right wingers won again.

These Trumpets are here for one main reason-to make their adversaries-meaning you, progressive Portland and liberals in general-look their absolute worst before a world stage. The revolution is being televised, streamed and shared, you idiots, and there you are in full focus becoming unhinged. They are trying to provoke you into a fight with their very presence and you take the bait every fucking time. You go mental before every camera pointed in your direction. Who cares if you have them too? It's just another angle. Every stupid act is being recorded, logged and shown around the world. It's ammunition for their side for not only the next election but for the very future itself. The more passive they get, the more empowered you feel because you outnumbered them. You became the oppressors. You became the jack booted thugs. You became the goddamn bullies.

And hey, Mayor Weenie was letting you do his dirty work for him. He can't look bad when he's up for re-election. What? Teddy Ruxpin's a law 'n order candidate? Oh, hell no! This chump has the spine of a gummy worm. He'll let these ass clowns into town for their rallies, then let you run rampant to run them out on a rail. When the dust, clears, he'll wash his hands of you with a 5 gallon barrel of Purell. You are pests being used to get rid of pests. What's going to happen when it's your time to hit the road, jerks?

So what's the thrust here? Should you not counter their protests? Well, the ever holy First Amendment applies to both sides now. What to do when the Proudies and Prayerie Dogs return which they threaten to do EVERY SINGLE MONTH for who knows how long? (Who's financing them? Follow the money!) The Antifalites could actually change their strategy.

I'm all in favor of a public shunning. Dress in your black unitards, stand on each side of their "parade" route and when they approach, turn your backs silently.

Oops. Sorry. I forgot you're all hopped up on caffeinated kombucha and incredible edibles. You'll be too twitchy to be quiet. Stay on the sidelines and talk amongst yourselves. They don't exist. Ignore them. Pretend they're not there. If this riles them up and they get so frustrated they attack, then fight back. But do NOT throw the first punch. You can have the last.

Awww...ain't it quaint?

The best idea I had is that the next time these MAGAtrons return to praise their lord and master, the Head Cheeto in Charge, they can be granted their request to for public assembly, only this time they have to congregate in Mill Ends Park, the world's smallest. It's a cute little Portland attraction of sorts that sits in the  median of a busy street near the waterfront in downtown P-town. Mill Ends is only 2 ft. across, covering a span of only 452 square inches. This will accommodate only one Proud Boy and one counter protester, your Antifala of choice. They can stand on each side of that spot and holler at each other at the top of your imbecilic lungs all the doo-dah day while dodging traffic all at the same time. Lotsa luck, fatheads.

All this crap makes my head ache. I personally don't care what happens between these dueling double dildos as long as they take it out of the city. Don't we have enough problems on a day to day basis without adding these modern day  Civil War re-enactments to the equation? Put 'em in a stadium and let 'em have at it. Be sure to charge admission. Might as well get something out the deal.

Am I straddling the fence here/? Damn right I am. How else are the rest of us going to get by, usually barely enough to survive ourselves? Remember this, my droogies, I didn't build that fence. It was put up without my consent and, as far as I'm concerned, it's just another obstacle on an increasingly difficult course. We've had almost three years of this shit already. No wonder we're suffering from battle fatigue. Next year's the dreaded election, but don't think it's going to end there when it reaches its inevitable conclusion. There's a distinct possibility that it's going to get even worse.

As Karen Carpenter once sung, "We've only just begun."

Da Birfday Boy

So the calendar on the wall dictated that another birthday o' mine had arrived. This one, a semi-milestone, was a low-key affair that I orchestrated myself because hey, if you want to celebrate the glory of me in this world, you're going to have to do so with my say-so. I'll make it a big damn deal when and if I feel it.

Not that I don't appreciate the attention or acknowledgment. Thanks to Facebook, I can revel in good wishes from people around the globe. That's right. I know people who know people and they're the luckiest people in the world...or so I heard. It is a kick in the butt to get something as simple as a cursory Happy Birthday from someone in Japan or Australia, though it's sad not to hear from my late friend Glen Chin, always the first out of the gate from Hong Kong. But I appreciate the gestures one and all, big and small, near, far, wherever you are...Holy crapballs...I go from a Babs Streisand reference to Celine Dion in a matter of sentences. I have no shame.

As I do every year, I pick out a special birthday movie to attend which is a traditional gift I give myself for as long as I can remember which s how long a this point, a week? I decided on the Laurel and Hardy film STAN AND OLLIE since it had good buzz and not a typical Hollywood cheeseball biopic ala GABLE AND LOMBARD or W.C. FIELDS AND ME. (These movies always come in pairs)  I felt it would be the perfect movie just for me.

Taking the Max train to downtown Portland because the film hasn't gotten as wide a release as say, anything by Disney which is to say basically everything, I left a little too late for my sojourn, maybe even missing the beginning of the movie, a major crime in my book, an increasingly dog-eared copy.  But la-de-damn-dah. I chose to go this particular cinema, take the frickin' train and not give myself enough time. So I owned up to it. I sat watching the suburbs and the outskirts of Portland go by and let it go. Que sera sera. (What? Now Doris Day?) As time passes as it most certainly did if this day of all days is any indication (which it is), I have to continue my life on my own terms as much as I can. So much has been taken away from me or governed by forces known and unknown, I have to be hold on to what I have and what I am for as long as possible, even owning up to my failures and weaknesses while continuing to strengthen my resolve. I did a lotta thinkin' in that 40 minute train ride.

But damn if I didn't get to the Fox Tower Cinema in the nick of time. So I missed the ten to twelve trailers Regal plays before each feature. I made it, sucka.

And the movie was exactly what I wanted it to be. STAN AND OLLIE is an unpretentious slice of Hollywood life about the final years of Laurel and Hardy as they take a live stage through Great Britain for one last hurrah. It's very straight forward without much revelation but minus the cheap sentimentality that usually mars such a project. However, it's not without its touching moments, prompting me to tear up a couple of times since my love for these guys is deep-rooted in my psyche. It also made me think of my best friend Max who I've known longer than these two guys knew each other. These days, the smallest of triggers can cause the waterworks to begin and I take everything personally.

Back to the movie. I have to hand to the two stars. A film such as this rises and falls on its casting. Steve Coogan and John C. Reilly nailed it. Reilly in heavy makeup is the absolute personification of Oliver Hardy, the vocal stylings alone are perfection. The humanity of this lovable lug comes through in every detail. I thought Coogan might be too abrasive as Stan Laurel, but he softened his approach and gave him a quiet strength tempered with melancholia as he tries to maintain his comic persona. In a film I regretted from the outset after that THREE STOOGES debacle a few years back (the TV movie is not half-bad, though) I am so glad I picked STAN AND OLLIE as my birthday movie this year. Kudos to director Jon S, Baird as well for nary a false note contained within.

On the ride home, the Max train was packed to the rafters (are there rafters on a Max train?) with early evening commuters. I had the offer of a seat at the half-way point, but gave it to a woman instead. Her seatmate complimented me on my chivalry, even giving me a double shot when I repeated the same gesture a couple of stops later. She said there's not not enough guys like me in the world anymore. I told her we were a dying breed. Before I disembarked, I leaned over to inform her that this was my 64th birthday, prompting some greetings from her and those I gave my seat up for that trip home. Aw shucks.

I had a lilt in my walk as I headed back, I gave Max a call down in California since he sent me a message as well, told him about the film and what it meant for he and me. When I returned, I fielded calls from my grandchildren and family members hither and yon, always a confidence booster. I finished my night with a special dinner prepared by my honey, always cooked with love making it the best meal I've ever had...again.

A good birthday all around. I feel good about me. Maybe I'm not so bad after all. I didn't think I was, but it's nice for someone to agree with me. And nobody sang, make reference to or sent a link to that goddamn Beatles song. No, not that one. The other. 

For that alone, I am truly grateful and everything else is delicious gravy.

There's No Place Like Home

Dear Oregon-

Happy anniversary! No, I didn't get you anything. What do you have for me? Bupkis. Fine. At least we're even.

So normally I don't acknowledge you so much as I do just plain Portland, claiming as I did in my 10th anniversary post entitled PORTLAND IS MY LAND. I'm sure the rest of the state feels a bit slighted. Sorry. It's like having a favorite child. Mike and Carol Brady probably preferred a kid or over the other in their bunch. (Peter seemed to be a bit of a dick and don't get me started on Cindy)

The harsh truth of the matter is that I've never lived in Portland. Oh, I say I do, but it's a big fat frickin' lie. I've worked in Portland for much of the two decades I've been here. I actually made an effort to make that my location of choice. But damnation alley, I'm stuck out here in the 'burbs like a wood tick in the coat of a collie. I've resided in Beaverton of all bloody places for the first ten years and Hillsboro after that. Before you go scrambling off to Google Maps and I lose you for good because you're bound to find a link there to something better like, well, anything, I'll merely inform you that Beaverton and Hillsboro are west of Portland on the way to the coast. Okay? They house Nike, Intel and a bunch of blithering idiotic suburbanites who won't get out of my goddamn way no matter how red in the face I get from screaming at them to do so OR ELSE  (There's nothing to back that up besides intense scorn, but it makes me sound tough) But here I am and here I'll stay because for the time being, that window has closed even though it's not locked. I've made it work and it works for me. There's more out here than meets the jaded eye. That's my rationalization and I'm sticking with it.

Hillsboro and the Beave never really won me over like Portland did though, well, eventually. My missive to P-Town (DISPLACED IN THIS PLACE) explained my early struggles. This initial period of adjustment took some time, partly due to me but mainly because the Rose City hadn't found its identity yet. It sat in the shadow of Seattle and boy, was it pissed. Slowly but oh so very surely, Portland found its voice and a star was reborn.

And it's worn its celebrity status well for a long damn time. But with that power came great responsibility (Excelsior! RIP Stan Lee) and all the trappings of celebrity in the 21st century. The late but not so lamented TV comedy PORTLANDIA brought us into the national spotlight more than anything, making us the source of ridicule while forcing us to look at ourselves with something more than ironic scorn. That show hit the bullseye more than a few times but soon tore the target itself into a pulpy mess.

We attracts me to this place more than anything is what PORTLANDIA mocked the best which was that it is a gathering place for people who don't belong anywhere else due to their eccentricities, uniqueness, arrested development and downright freakishness. Kindred spirits (and lost souls) abound in a place that actually encourages us to belong to a club that would have us for members. Sure, we go way out of our way in our pursuit of life, liberty and the pursuit of quinoa,but when we find it, we nail it. The food scene alone is a testament to that and has us a destination to rival in the United States. It can be a little too precious sometimes, but so what? It's not always just the journey. The destination ends up being oh. so sweet.

What's been good for Portland been good for the state, though the opposite is true as well. The problems that have accumulated in the course of these growing pains have been painful to endure and have been ignored to the point of crisis. Affordable housing and homelessness continue to increase without any viable solutions to help stunt their growth. Crime has grown to an insufferable degree and political dissent, understandable or not, has become a way of life. In the midst of this is a growing concern that the weirdness we celebrate has created a mutant strain from unfortunate side effects like something from (gasp!) Big Pharma. Hopefully we can weed out the chaff and find our way before we ruin what we've built and become merely a meme come true.

Twenty years ago, we came here for family, one that I cherish with every fiber of my being and found
another in the process. I'm pleased this is where we landed in this, the land of soy milk and raw honey, not to mention legal weed, fantastic beer, amazing food, ultra grand vistas, a political philosophy I can tolerate and geeks aplenty all this in this crock pot I'm proud to call home. It really is where the heart is, to be so painfully sincere yet without a touch of irony, thank you very much.  I do love it here, Oregon. I have a lot of you to explore and a desire to do so if I don't procrastinate too
much before I kick. I believe I'm here to stay and proud to be, dadgum it. You've been good to me, but it hasn't been easy. I reckon that's the point, isn't it? C'est la vie.

Happy Anniversary to us, Oregon

Your pal
Scott

Yin v. Yang: Dawn of Just Us

Mr. Cherney, I've got some good news and I've got some bad news.

Of course you do. That's how you people operate.

You people?


Skip it. What's the good news?


Well, the good news is that for the third year in a row, your plays are being produced in various parts of the country.


That is good news. I'm afraid to ask. What's the bad news?

You know that place you've been living for the past ten years? You're going to have to vacate in 90 days. Your landlords are kicking you to the curb.


Lovely. Just lovely. Looks like I've got the makings of a new melodrama.

Such is the year 2016 for your humble narrator, a shit storm with patches of intermittent sunbursts. This recent life development has made us just another goddamn casualty of the housing market feeding frenzy that's tearing up the greater Portland metro area and rest of the formerly free world. Our landlords ambushed us with the news that they have decided to put our home sweet home on the market this summer. A Seller's Market in this economy should be a good thing, but not for the flotsam and jetsam in this society that we suddenly find ourselves to be. One shouldn't really begrudge them this golden opportunity after the housing crisis, but this has created another housing crisis as a result: OURS. So I'm summoning up some old Hungarian black magic and putting a curse of this joint when we walk out the door for the last time, probably involving bleeding walls.On second thought, I'll wait until we got they return our deposit.

We're not alone in our currently miserable situation. Truth to tell, we could have gotten 30 days notice instead of 90 as so many have, but rent prices have skyrocketed and the rules of the game have been rigged against us...and apparently everyone else trying to find a place to live. In most scenarios, rental applicants must have income three times the rental price of even the dumpiest of dumps. The long slog of searching for the new Casa de Cherney continues on for forty days and forty nights with parking and burning bush available for an additional fee. But hey, everyone wants to show you their lovely clubhouse and fitness center, neither one you allowed to move into even though they make the actual living space a spider hole in comparison. Then there's the fluctuating rents that are up, down, flying around like the stock market so that what was quoted today will be another story entirely tomorrow even if it is a day away.

The initial anger over the whole situation hasn't diminished much, even with the brave face I am using to mask my true feelings. Soon panic will set in and that's never a good thing. The rug has pulled pulled out from under my wife and I, uncovering an open trap door on a Wile E. Coyote cliff over The Dreaded Depths of Despair. It won't be long before we start standing at freeway exits with cardboard signs that read: WILL WORK FOR RENTAL APPLICATION FEES

It's all so overwhelming and all encompassing, not to mention the fact that it is occurring at an extremely inopportune moment in time. (I don't know, kid. When exactly would be a  more convenient time to get tossed out in the snow on your ass by Mr. and Mrs. Snidely Whiplash?)  This prolific period of creativity I find myself in (aka The Final Push) is getting side-lined by this mess and the pause button is working overtime, adding to my frustration, stress levels and ever looming depression. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let this become another lame excuse for procrastination. The iron's hot and so am I. Not just under the collar either.

What's really keeping me afloat, besides the love of my life who is in the same rapidly sinking ship with me and the support of my family, is my continuing good fortune with my plays. No sooner did the StageCoach Theatre Company production of DEAD TUESDAY end that the Brazos Theatre Group in Waco, Texas agreed to produce SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE over Memorial Day weekend. That will be the last time the show will go under that title for in July, Theatre Suburbia in Houston, Texas (a Lone Star two-fer!) had agreed to stage the same show under that thar other title, SONG OF THE CANYON KID as their summer mellerdrammer (their word, not mine.) This will be the name of that particular script going forward and I begin a re-branding process I should have started a year ago.

On top of all that, I am relaunching the novelization of SONG OF THE CANYON KID at Northwest Local, the Beaverton City Library's local author fair on May 21. I'll be doing a reading, selling my wares and try not to think about what freeway underpass I may be sleeping under soon. Gotta keep my pecker up for that. (No, not that one.) Stiff upper lip and all that rot. It ain't easy. My mouth is cramping.

In the midst of this chaos, it's tough to gain perspective, but I think I have a handle on it, though my grip is slippery thanks to my sweaty palms.

I reckon I've been on the carousel for too long. It's a pleasant enough ride traveling in circles, not without its ups and downs if you decide to hop on a pony.But if you choose to sit in the swan, you can sit back and allow the passing world lull you into submission. And there lies the problem. The merry-go-round can lull you into a false sense of security, dulling your senses and ultimately making you the one thing you can't afford to be in today's world: vulnerable. And when you're yanked off the carousel and thrust into the driver's seat of a bumper car and discover the steering wheel is missing, forcing you to get out and hitchhike. Wait until you get on the roller coaster. Some of the tracks are missing.

You know what? I'm sick of this goddamn carnival. The rides suck, the games are rigged and the hot dog on a stick has splinters. It's time to shake it off, regain our footing and quit acting like victims. We ain't down and out, but we have been knocked for a loop by a sucker punch out of nowhere. But we're gonna keep a'comin'. We're the people that live. They can't wipe us out. They can't lick us. We'll go on forever 'cuz we're the people!

Oh boy. I've turned into Ma Joad. But I'm okay with that. I can go all Howard Beale too. That's a righteous combination in my book. More importantly, I gotta be me. I'm dead serious when I say that this is Cherney's Last Stand and I'll be damned if I'm going let this get in my way . There's no way in Heaven, Hell or Hillsboro that this thing is over yet.

It's yin and yang, yang and yin. If it ain't yin, it's yang, vice versa and simultaneously. They seem to be on equal footing at the moment, which at least allows me some semblance of balance in this mine field. Then again, this could all very well be a knockdown, drag-out fight for the ownership of my soul. But I'm not going to stand on the sidelines while it all goes down. I'm throwing down the gauntlet myself and declaring this triple threat match because I'm stepping back into the ring.

In the words of Yogi Berra, Lenny Kravitz and the fat lady getting ready to sing at the opera, it ain't over 'til it's over.

National Lampoon's Staycation

Last week, I took some time off (or gave myself a time out, whichever the case may be) for some much needed R n' R. This is something I ridiculously consider a luxury because, quite honestly, I never give this particular sucker an even break and consider PTO so valuable that I don't want to spend a minute. But since accumulation of same is maxed out, necessity became the mother of reinvention as my brain pan was coated with over-cooked reality. Thus, I withdrew some hours and took a vacation. Since I didn't leave town, per se, one clever ass in the hat has dubbed this a "stay-cation". This was probably the same Alexandre Dumb-Ass who also came up with "bromance" and calls sandwiches "sammies".

In true Cherney style,, the week began with just about every electronic device in my possession going on the fritz-phone, computer, cable TV-and almost immediately, I went apoplectic and damn near suicidal with fears of what next might crap out. I wanted to beat them to the punch and depart this world before they did because I JUST COULDN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE. Technology is not my my friend. Oh, who am I kidding? My nemesis is basically anything with moving parts. I probably have an Neanderthal ancestor who fretted when the fire burned out and poured out his guts on a cave wall.   

"How fire work? Oh, woe is Kronk."

Kronk Cherney, caveman blogger.

Of course as I post these thoughts online, the irony is just so very...over-bearing. And my angst? Over-dramatic, to say the least and the least said the better. Yes, I over-reacted as everything returned to what I considered normal and you can all just consider these the rantings and ravings of One Whiny Bitch. That's what they used to call Kronk.

Frankly, I just wanted my cable back. There was a bountiful feast of programs just waiting for me and I wanted to gorge since I finally had the time to do so. I got my greedy little wish and dove in head-first. I caught up on TREME, BOARDWALK EMPIRE, LOUIE, HOMELAND, SONS OF ANARCHY, DOCTOR WHO (guest starring my buddy the great Mike McShane), HELL ON WHEELS to name just a few.

You have your choice of two quotes here.

Jimmy Kimmel at this year's Emmy telecast: "There's a lot of great stuff on. I'm going to have to go out less."
or
Woody Allen in ANNIE HALL: "And eventually, you grow old and die."

Both actually apply.

HONEY BOO BOO aside, this really is the Platinum Age of television. No longer the Vast Wasteland, unless you count Bravo and TLC, TV has it all over the movies these days and that pains me to even consider those words.

This is why I am so over the moon about BEASTS OF THE SOUTHERN WILD,  the brilliant first film from director Benh Zeitlin that has actually restored my faith in the future of cinema once again. This fanciful tale of the Louisiana bayou told through a child's eyes grabbed me from the first frame to the last, a near-perfect fusion of fantasy and reality. Its sultry atmosphere and dreamy ambiance just wrapped me up and transported me to another world in time and place. That's where cinema-GOOD cinema-has the upper hand over television. Zeitlin's is one of the finest debuts from an American filmmaker since Terrence Malick's BADLANDS back in the Seventies (a film I don't think Malick has exceeded). But BEASTS would be only half as good without the extraordinary once-in-a-lifetime performance from Quvenzhané Wallis as the fierce heroine Hush-Puppy. Forget Batman and all of The Avengers. Hush-Puppy is the true super-heroine of summer 2012. She is one fierce Beast.

The rest of the week included stops at Portland culinary destinations like Bunk Sandwiches and Chef Andy Ricker's Pok Pok knock-off, the Whiskey Soda Lounge. This latter featured Vietnamese bar food like those amazing fish sauce chicken wings as well as a dish called Miang Cham-chilies, ginger, peanuts, dried shrimp, lime, shallot and coconut all minced and wrapped up in a betel leaves. A one bite wonder.

To justify an annual membership fee, the week finished at the Portland Art Museum for the new show, The Body Beautiful, presented in conjunction with the British Museum. The Body Beautiful is a collection of Greek and Roman art, much of it never seen before in the U.S. Yes, it's the kind of show that make you want to clap your hands together and chant "Hercules! Hercules! Hercules!" But as usual, what sticks in my craw (which is found right up my ass) is the General Public. At what point in time has it been acceptable to bring a camera or even use one's phone as such in a goddamn art museum? I don't want a bunch of rubes flashing their doo-dads like a spastic paparazzi when I'm trying to enjoy the fucking art. The Gossip Girls posing with the discus thrower just about made me lose my Miang Cham. Does everything have to be chronicled and documented instead of just experienced? (Yes, I'm blogging about it. Irony. Yeah, we already covered that. Move on.) What's next PAM...laser tag? Cameras in art museums, wham bam, no thank you, PAM.

And finally, the grand finale of the week was a personal triumph for your humble narrator. I actually did some damn writing that didn't involve blogging, posting or anything online. I finished the first draft of my next book, even rocked it old school by penning it all in long-hand. Now the real hard part begins as I move on to the next level by trying read my own scribbling. Does anybody know Sanscrit?

To the right is a visual clue about said future magnum opus.

Let me tell you something, my friends. Getting back to basics sure felt good. I'm actually kind of proud of myself for the first time in awhile.

And THAT was a good week off. Or as Cronk Cherney would have said:

"Beats working for living."